Hope?
I stare at the single line.
Ma bichette.
How can I so suddenly, fiercely miss someone who hasn’t been in my life in decades?
But if he’s in prison, how can he write to me? How did he find me?
I tap on the account name, David Levy. The page shows a seascape in the profile photo. The bio is in Hebrew, which I can’t read, and it’s marked private. David Levy is about as ordinary a name in Israel as John Smith is in the US.
I return to the direct message, tap reply, and type quickly, Who is this?
There is no answer, no matter how long I stare at it.
Over lunch, Angie said, “How did we get into this mess anyway? What were we thinking?”
Dani rolled her eyes. “We were not thinking, sweetheart.”
I hadn’t been thinking. I’d been feeling. Feeling the sun on my skin on the sparkling coasts of North Africa. Smelling the spice and heat of the markets, hearing the call of voices in a dozen languages, feeling the thrill of discovery and the delight of freedom.
Oh, how free we felt!
In those days, there were not nearly as many flights overseas, not a dozen carriers sending multiple planes per day to every port in the world. When we flew to Casablanca or Cairo or Hong Kong or some other faraway place, we often spent two or three days on a layover, waiting for the next scheduled flight.
For most of us, it was the very best part of the job. The airline paid for a room for us to share in a nice hotel, and we all knew the best bars and restaurants. Pilots and businessmen were eager to take us out, buy us martinis in hopes of a tumble, which many of us were happy to indulge. It wasn’t the myth of a swinging stewardess we indulged but our own appetites, liberated by travel, by the heady power of freedom.
So much freedom! It was an astonishment to me, coming as I did from a small, provincial town in upstate New York, that little town where my Parisian mother shrank into an embittered pickle of herself.
One of my favorite routes was the New York to Casablanca trip, which gave us a three-day pause in that most storied of cities. I adored the movie with Humphrey Bogart, and I couldn’t believe it when I was actually scheduled for a flight there. The first time, I was giddy all the way over the Atlantic, for once not minding the hands of businessmen wandering too freely over my backside as I served their drinks and steaks, chattering with my friend Nancy in the galley as we prepared the first-class meal of steak au poivre and served champagne and cocktails. I couldn’t sleep at all, and when we landed, late on a Wednesday afternoon, I couldn’t wait to get out and see it.
See it, eat it, drink it up. I gobbled up the world then, eager for whatever it wanted to offer me. Outside in the dusty, hot street, with the music of voices and commerce and cars honking and motorbikes roaring and men shouting and people calling back and forth, I saw a monkey running along the edge of a stall and stopped dead, laughing.
Alive.
Here I am, Mama.
She would so have loved a life like this, full of travel and new sights and the possibilities of adventure! As the daughter of a wealthy middle-class family, her father a professor, her mother an opera singer until her marriage, she’d been primed to expect it. My mother had been a brilliant pianist with her eye on the stage and both the talent and the beauty to pull it off.
Instead, the war had marched into Paris. By the time it was over, she leaped eagerly into the arms of my father, whose provincialism was obscured by his dazzling good looks and her desperate need to escape. She lived the rest of her life in a farm town of nine hundred, teaching piano and slowly souring into a bitter caricature of herself who smoked herself into an early grave at the age of forty-one.
She breathed into her daughters, me and Billie, the urgency of never settling, of dreaming a big dream and following it. She gave us her old-world manners and taught us the value of good looks and made us both promise to never, ever marry for comfort.
Imbued with her dreams, I applied at TWA as soon as I was old enough. And on the streets of Casablanca one sunny day in 1975, I bought a brightly patterned scarf and sampled kefta and mint tea and buttery harcha in the market and soaked in all the sights and sounds and smells of that fabled city. I wrote a postcard to my sister, who shared an apartment with four other people as she tried to find her place as a musician.
For Mom, I wrote.
It was perhaps a year later, when I’d learned the best restaurants and most interesting alleys, that we arrived after a rather turbulent flight. All of us were exhausted but overwrought. A terrible crash at JFK just a few weeks before had left us soberly aware of just how dangerous the job could be. My nerves were taut, and I wanted a martini and a good meal as soon as possible.
My girlfriend Nancy and I got ready for an evening out. I wore a turquoise silk sheath, sleeveless, custom made on a trip to the East, with a loose white scarf draped around my neck and shoulders. I knew I looked good as I entered the hotel lobby, poised and polished and world traveled, and carried that assurance with me.
I saw the most extraordinary man standing nearby the door as if he were waiting for me. Not particularly tall but beautifully proportioned, with wide shoulders and a nipped waist shown off in a tropical white linen suit. He had beautiful hands, the hands of an artist, long and brown and well tended, with oval nails and strong palms, not that I saw all that right then. I saw his dark, glittering eyes and his slow, almost invisible smile as he watched me enter the room. He was both intensely masculine and urbanely polished. European, I thought then.
Israeli, as it turned out. He reminded me of Leonard Cohen, whose new album had been playing constantly in my apartment and upon whom I had a massive crush. I felt him watching me, and at the right moment, I looked at him long enough to let him know I was intrigued.
He didn’t take the bait, and I simply kept walking with my girlfriend. We walked to a restaurant not far from the hotel and sank gratefully into our meal. A band played music, and a few couples danced. Nancy and I spoke little, until she said, “I think I’m done flying.”
“Because of the turbulence today? That just happens, Nance, you know that.”
She speared her steak and looked out over the crowd. “No, it was the man in 8-A. Mr. Harris.” A brunette with a staggeringly good figure, Nancy was a magnet for the type of traveler who believed stewardesses were just a version of Playboy Bunnies, ready for a tumble with just about anybody.
“Ugh.” I rolled my eyes. “He did give you a pretty hard time.”
“He stuck his hand all the way up my skirt.” She shuddered. “All the way.”
“I’m sorry. We should have cut him off sooner.”
“That’s no excuse. Other men were drunk, or at least tipsy, and none of them did that. It shouldn’t be allowed. What gives him the right?”
The airline, I thought, but I didn’t have to say it. She knew. We all did. The tone of advertising offered stewardesses up on a platter with slogans like Come Fly with Me and Ready When You Are. I touched her arm. “I’m sorry. It’s humiliating.”
“It is,” she said. “And I am not willing to put up with it anymore.”
“But what will you do?”
“I don’t know. Find Gloria Steinem and join the movement.”
“Burn your bra?”
She laughed, gesturing. “That might be a little dangerous. I wouldn’t want to hurt anyone!”
We both laughed.
“Pardon me, ladies. May I interrupt?”
I looked up to see the man from the hotel. Up close, his eyes were green and mesmerizing, his face a little more rugged than it first appeared. He had a scar along one cheekbone and a wide, generous mouth. My skin rippled, head to toe. I met his gaze.
“Will you dance with me, mademoiselle?”
I was already sliding out of the booth. On the dance floor, he kept a respectful distance, his hands in their proper places, which I appreciated more than usual after the conversation with Nancy. It was wearing at times to f
end off the advances of passengers. “My name is Isaak Margolis,” he said. “What’s yours?”
“Gloria Rose.”
He smiled, very faintly. “Lovely. Where are you from, Gloria? What do you do? Tell me everything about you.”
His voice was deep and smooth, words lilting with an accent I didn’t recognize. “New York City,” I said. “I’m with TWA.”
“A stewardess?” he said. “Really.” He inclined his head, as if this was a surprising confession. “You seem . . . much more than that.”
“More? Whatever do you mean?”
“You’re not a shallow woman.”
I laughed. “How in the world could you possibly know that?”
A flash crossed his face, and he stepped ever so slightly closer. “You have intelligence in your face. In your eyes.” He looked at my mouth, and it was as intimate as a kiss. “I saw it in your bearing at the hotel.”
I raised a brow. “Perhaps I only think of silks and capturing a wealthy husband.”
His fingers moved slightly, respectfully, along my waist. “No, I do not think those are your goals. You want freedom.”
It startled me, that he could see into my soul so clearly. Lightly, I tossed off, “That’s the dream of every man, isn’t it? A woman who hungers for freedom?”
His wide mouth cocked upward, only on one side. “I suspect most wish for quite the opposite.”
“A servant?”
His shrug was so very continental. Again, that shiver from eyebrows to toes, back and front. I felt myself spellbound, as if he’d woven invisible ropes around my body. To shake it off, I straightened and asked lightly, “And you? What do you do? Are you the rich husband I seek?”
He laughed softly. “Afraid you will be disappointed on that score.”
“Husband or rich?”
His gaze caught and held mine, and our legs brushed. “Neither.”
“Are you married?”
“No.” He swung me slightly, and I responded to the spin, and he caught me on the way back. “I’m an art dealer. From Tel Aviv.”
“Israeli?”
“Yes, does that surprise you?”
“Not at all.” In fact, I didn’t really care where he was from. The chemical stew of our bodies burned at an incandescent temperature. He smelled intensely masculine, some sort of heady aftershave and sweat and skin. I did not look away from his green eyes, lashed so heavily they softened the harshness of his face. When he stepped closer, smoothly bringing our bodies into contact, it was as if an actual current connected us.
It rattled him. I could tell. “Your perfume is extraordinary,” he said. “What is it?”
“I’m not wearing perfume,” I said, eyeing his mouth and moving my body closer. “That’s only skin.”
“Perhaps I should deliver you back to your friend before the air around us ignites.”
“Perhaps you should,” I said, but it was the last thing I wanted.
Instead, he took me to his room, and we had the most explosive sex of my life. Intense, sweaty, fall-off-the-bed sex. Everything from the sensual way he kissed to the knowledgeable way he moved his hands on my skin was at least a few steps beyond anything I’d imagined it could be, and when we lay in the dark, sweating and naked, our breath returning slowly, he said, “I have never had sex like that, ever.”
“You’re lying,” I said, with a laugh.
“I am not.” He rested a palm on my belly. “But I hope to find out it can be even better.”
Like a moth to a flame, I flew, right into the incendiary blaze.
Chapter Eleven
Sam
The next day, I have a headache from tossing and turning all night, but I pull myself together and head down to my Brooklyn office anyway. Looking at the small, loyal crew I’ve assembled over the years, I think about Jared’s offer, about the failure of Purple, and about the games we have in development now, none of which are going to bring the deliverance needed.
It’s not a big company, only twenty of us. Last year, I lost three coders to pregnancy and attrition and two more to moves west, but many of the others have been with me for nearly twenty years. Looking at them, working in an open-concept space, some singly, some in groups of two or three, I realize there isn’t a single person under thirty, and however much I try to keep the numbers even, there are always more men than women.
The card for the young woman at the party is in my pocket. I think about her youth and eagerness, her desire and belief in that Shining Future. Maybe she can help. I dash off an email asking her to come in and talk to me.
I need to do more of that. More shuffling. More exploring of new ideas. More—everything.
Some of it will cost money.
But not all of it. Taking out a large notebook, I start brainstorming ways to freshen the labor pool without spending money. Interns are one way to start, but maybe it’s not so much age and talent as a need for fresh ideas. I call my assistant into my glass-paneled office. “Jenny, let’s schedule a meeting for next week, all hands.”
She taps her tablet. “Tuesday at nine a.m.?”
“Great.”
“Are you feeling all right, boss?” she asks. “You’re looking a little under the weather.”
Why do people ever ask that? “I just have a headache. No big deal.”
“I’ll bring you some tulsi tea.”
“Great, thanks.” I flip a new page in the notebook and write, Incentivize new game ideas, ask for brainstorming new ways to do things. I pause for a moment. Be honest, I write, and ask for honesty in return. I need to let my coders and designers be totally real with me. I haven’t always done that—again, that was a role Asher took on, and I’ve not been able to step into his shoes the way I’d like. It’s very difficult for me to listen to criticism.
But without it, without my openness to the discomfort, Boudicca will go under. I can’t give up until I’ve explored every option.
By midafternoon, the headache sends me home. It’s gone far beyond a tension headache and blasted right past the ibuprofen I took, and just after lunch I’m forced to give up, handing the day over to my assistant. She gives me a wry smile. “Everything will be all right without you for a day or two, boss.”
Now, I’ve given in to my favorite silk pajamas, a luxurious habit I picked up as an adolescent under Gloria’s sensual tutelage, and a schleppy sweater that is my own contribution, and I’m curled up in my apartment eating ice cream. I should really make a run to the market, since there’s almost nothing in the kitchen except coffee and a stale box of Cheerios.
And ice cream. I run a lot, affording me plenty of my favorites. Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia is my poison of choice. Sometimes I cheat with Half Baked, but that’s rare, and tonight, I need comfort food. It’s raining steadily, making the open layout of the rooms feel cold, even when I crank up the heat.
The cold is the one downside to the space. I wrap myself up in a blanket and enjoy the other aspects—the enormous windows with a view of treetops, bare at the moment, but they’re beautiful all summer and fall. The kitchen is up-to-the-very-minute modern, with full-size appliances and gleaming granite countertops. Brushed-steel lights hang down over the breakfast bar and the range.
Not that I cook. But I’m pretty sure that one of the reasons Eric fell for me was that he was smitten with my kitchen on sight. He loved experimenting with all kinds of cuisines.
The apartment is the exact opposite of Gloria’s, my gift to myself at age twenty-two when the game sold so many copies, a badge of honor.
Like my mother buying her place, I think now, for the very first time. How could I never have seen that before? Billie’s purchase was even more bold than mine, a single woman buying a place on her own—not the easiest thing in those days.
A worm of distaste squirms through me as I remember what I said to Gloria this afternoon—that it isn’t hers. Technically, it isn’t, but it is, because she’s lived there for more than twenty-five years. My mother died in 1994, a
nd Gloria moved in to take care of Willow and me. My mother didn’t always do the best job with that.
My comment was a meanness she didn’t deserve, and I honestly can’t believe I said it.
The story of my life: blistering someone with my fury, only to regret it later. Shame lodges under my ribs, rough and painful. Somehow I’ll have to make it up to her.
A text dings on my phone. It’s my friend Tina. Wanna FaceTime? Baby is asleep.
YES! I pick up my tablet and balance it on my knees. In a moment, she rings through, and I open the app to see her big-eyed face, one of my favorites in the world. “Hey!” I cry. “It’s so good to see you!”
She runs a hand through her loose, greasy hair. “As you see, this is the super-polished me. I’ve got no makeup on and can’t remember the last time I had a shower.”
“I wouldn’t care if you had smears of axle grease on your face, sweetheart.” I gesture with my arms. “As you see, I’m also in glamour mode.”
She peers into the screen. “I’m a fine one to talk, but are you okay? You don’t look good.”
“A headache. Not sleeping that well.” I shake my head. “Still struggling with business issues, but it’s nothing to worry about. How is motherhood?”
“I know I’m a mess, but oh my God, Sam, he’s the best baby in the world. So funny and cheerful and adorable.”
Jay is almost three months old, a round little creature with his mother’s giant sparkling black eyes and his father’s thick black hair and a toothless grin that makes my ovaries hurt. “I’m so glad.”
“I miss you,” she says and touches the camera with a fingertip. “I’m making do with the other moms, but they’re just not my people.”
I am so lonely it’s like acid on my skin. Tina left and Asher stopped talking to me, and they were pretty much my entire world after Eric, but I’m not going to drop that in her lap. She’s as happy as I’ve ever seen her. I force myself to say, “Maybe you’ll run into somebody working on a doctoral thesis about game theory who also knits the perfect afghan.” She’s a big knitter, a hobby I admit bewilders me.
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